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"THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER" 

'Notes they fly by, sigh by, die by ' 
In the Wood." 



THE 

MIDNIGHT MUMMER 

and Other Poems 



BY 

THORNWELL JACOBS 

Author of "Sinful Sadday", "The Law of the White Circle", 
"The Shadow of Attacoa" 



ATLANTA 

The Redbrook Company 

1911 






Copyrighted 1911 

by 
Thornwell Jacobs 



ft 

©CI.A295.lu4 



PREFACE 

One always thinks he has many things to say in his preface 
until he sets himself to the task. Then, he finds shockingly 
few things to say; especially in defense of another volume of poems 
Yet even near-poets are not cowards about their verses although 
they quake at thinking of any one else reading them: for men 
may see faults they themselves cannot correct. But these men furnish 
the stepping stones on which some very great singer may mount 
to an immortal stage; they hold the goal flags beyond which he must 
go if he is really to say the imperishable thing: and hence may be 
forgiven all their imperfections. For the spirit whose breath they 
speed is God's greatest gift to men. What could He plan better for 
us than the goodly boon of a great man? And to that man, what mes- 
sage could he impart better than a great thought? And, for that 
thought, what excellence could He desire higher than a great form? 
And, of great forms of expression of thought, what will compare 
with the gentle rhythm of musical words? That is why we cherish our 
poets as well as laugh at their counterfeits. We refuse to let them 
die. At the head of every national literature we place one of them 
as premier of all in the fine art of immortalizing thought. 

So even the near-poet has his uses and, for the sake of the music 
he hastens, may ask forgiveness for all his discords. The lute is not 
broken; it awaits the breath of a master; the master who has his own 
hour for making music that must last. 



BOOKS BY THORNWELL JACOBS 

REDBROOK COMPANY, PUBS., ATLANTA, GEORGIA 

SINFUL SADDAY 

"Makes an ideal present for a boy." — Ep worth 
Era. 

"Full of adion and entertaining." — Nashville 
Banner. 

"Will be read with interest, not only by children, 
but by grown-ups all over our Southland." — 
Christian Observer. 

The book is beautifully illustrated with thirty- 
five pen sketches and twelve full-page wash-draw- 
ings. Cover in four colors. 

Price $1.00 postpaid 

THE LAW OF THE WHITE CIRCLE 

A Stirring Novel of the Atlanta Riots 

"A book to stir the passions, a book that power- 
fully grips the pillars of social life." — Tom Watson 
in The Jeffersonian. 

"One of the greatest novels ever written by a 
Southern man. It is vivid, telling, powerful."— 
John Trotwood Moore. 

"From just such writers, men of authoritative 
thought the South will be awakened to what is 
necessary in this negro question — just such books 
as The Law of the White Circle, which we should 
welcome, read and study." — Birmingham Age- 
Herald. 

This novel is absolutely unique in English Liter- 
ature and with the exception of none is the only 
attempt to be philosophically accurate in handling 
this all-absorbing race theme. It is a virile, honest, 
red-blooded presentation of the greatest factor in 
American life. 

Price, $1.25 postpaid 



DEDICATION 



To those who seek to see as far and 
to those who rejoice that they can see 
much farther, this volume is dedicated 
by the author, with a miserere for all 
those who do not wish to see at all. 



CONTENTS 



The Midnight Mummer 9 

Baby's Easter 14 

The Comet 15 

Beyond the Falls 17 

Miserere 19 

A Boy to His Mother 21 

He Travels On 23 

Opportunity 24 

Square Round ! 25 

Thine Hour Shall Come 27 

The First Day 28 

A Song of a Wrong 29 

Deserted 31 

The Little Maid of Mu 32 

The Song of the Rain 33 

Fragments 35 

The Dream of the River 38 

The Echo 39 

My Little Maid 40 

The South-Bound Mail 41 

Jus' A-Whistlin' to Keep Up 'is Cou'age ! 42 



Ole Man Fever 43 

The Lonely Sea 44 

A Tale of a Teddy 45 

To Mary 47 

A Foretaste ? 48 

The Urge of Bush River 49 

Shall They Be Mine? 51 

The Graves Are There 52 

At Dark 53 

My Search for God 54 

Five Little Panes of Dusty Glass 55 

The Sin of the Sour Face 56 

The Song of the Christmas Tree 57 

The Lure of the Blanket 61 

'Tse Risin' " 62 

Trust Triumphant » 64 

The Psychic City 65 

Back From the Ages 67 

Yellow Jasmine 69 

Mismated 71 

The Song of the Laboring Man 72 



We are enabled to present herewith specially relevant illustration* of some of (he pootu 
through the courtesy of Messrs. Julian Harris and F. V. Daciea. of Atlanta. Ga., Dr. J. D. 
Jacobs, of Clinton, S. C. and Doubledoy. Pa/Jc & Co., of Garden City. N. Y. 



FOREWORD 



MY PRAYER. 



A mercy show me, Lord, before I go, 

A boon, since I may never come again — 

Whisper one sacred secret in my ear 

And bid me tell it to my fellow-men; 

A word nor man nor beast did ever hear, 
And let me write it for my fellow-men. 

O bid me not die that is my only fear — 

Till Thou hast heard my prayer — and then 
I go, my Lord, O not till then ! 

One only gift I ask — I crave it so — 

Rich gift, since I shall never come again, 

Reveal to me one master mystery 

And let me tell it to my fellow-men. 

A thing nor man nor beast did ever see, 
That I might show it to my fellow-men, 

Some thought of Thine that must remembered be 
Forever ! Lo, I listen, Lord, till then, 
Listen for my answer, Lord, till then. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910, 



THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER. 

The lightning-hearted thunder has withdrawn his awful voice 

And the midnight storm is gone, 
But the black mist of the terrible, wild passion he employs 

Broods in horror o'er the wrecks his breath has blown. 
For the death of things is walking in the midnight gloom, 
And the end of all things stalking where the shadows loom, 

• Tho' the fearful storm is gone. 
The bright-eyed stars are sulking behind the veiling clouds, 
And all frightful things are skulking in the blackness that enshrouds 

The wrecks, when the storm is gone, 

The silence, when the storm is gone. 

Lo, one doth meet the midnight with a song, 
A carol when the night is long, 

Clear and sweet and beautiful, 

Alone of all the dutiful, 
He dares to meet the midnight with a song, 
To thrill the mighty midnight with a song. 

All the gladness, all the madness of the wood, 
All the magic of their music, every mood 

Of the melodies they utter, 

Trilling cadences they flutter, 
Notes they fly by, sigh by, die by in the wood. 

Made monarch of the midnight by a song, 
On the throne of his despised, rotting prong, 

Lilting songs of all the singers, 

Master of all music bringers, 
In their fearful silence listening to his song, 
To their own words bravely uttered in his song. 

Hark, the harbinger note from the delicate throat 

Of the bluebird who sings as he flies! 
And the spring has come with the woodpecker home, 

All the flowers have opened their eyes ; 
The robins have come to their summertime home, 

And the daisies have opened their eyes. 



THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER. 

"Where the sap-sucker circles the June-apple tree," 
He is singing of thee, of thee! 

And the little one hears and in spite of his fears 
Is a-tremble in infinite glee. 

And the little bird whispers, "O Prince of all Lispers, 
Thou singest for me, for me, 
In the midnight thou singest for me !" 

There whistles a voice from the lush young wheat, 

And wings are a-whirr to meet. 

All the field is a-flight in the awful midnight, 

As he calleth :"Bob-White, Bob-White!" 

For the partridge hears afar in the wheat, 

And his fluttering heart is abeat, aheat, 

As he hears his voice in the night, 

His message abroad in the night. 

Now over the hills in the vale of the vanished, alas, the great 

star dies ! 
And a throstle mourns in the valley till the woods refuse his cries, 
Pleads lowly in plaintive sally for the life of the star that dies, 
Till gently each wood-aisle and alley in tenderness softens his sighs, 
Lone wood-aisle and pleached alley, for love of the star that dies. 

List, Cardinal Grosbeak, a-flame with his love, 

Boasteth loud in the mulberry tree ! 

"In wildest abandon of deference, Love, I flutter my wing for thee! 

What mildest demand on thy preference, Love, may I stutter this 

spring in glee? 
Beguiled, rest thy hand on no reference, Love, others utter, I sing 

ma cherie !" 
Thus Cardinal Grosbeak, all red with his love 
A-flame in the mulberry tree. 

The cherry-lipped robin who loveth the light 

Now ringeth the world with joy. 
His song of the noonday is heard in the night 

With a fervor no fear may alloy; 
The faint-hearted robin who listens in fright 

10 



THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER. 

To the sound of his midday joy, 
Echo of his riotous joy. 

A part of all the birds whom he has met, 
For each in song he pays their midnight debt, 

Till the hermits of the river 

(At the faintest sound a-quiver) 
Hear the housetops ringing with their rondolet, 

And the shriekers of the common, 

Catch their voices echoed from on 
High, discordant cries to sweetest music set, 

Till the wax-wings are a-flutter 

And the bobolinks in utter 
Gladness listen to their secret rondolet, 
Madness — listen to their glee-sweet rondolet. 

He has sung them their songs the long night thro', 
While his own was a-rest in his heart, 

He has sent their sweet messages homeward to new 
Courage give, a new note to impart; 

And lo, as he sang the strange urge in him grew 
To unbosom his impassioned heart, 
To sing his own song from his heart. 

"O wonderful, wonderful world of God, 

When Thy wonders all are seen ; 
Ah, beautiful, beautiful universe, 

When Thy beauties all have been ; 
When all of the thoughts of all of the years 

Have shed their light and gone, 
When all of the tears and all of the fears 

With all things felt have flown, 
What stage will He set for the play He will get 

When all of His worlds have gone? 

When Time and Space have gone? 

What stone to what tinder strike 

When suns are cinder-like 

And Life and Love have flown, 

When thought and will have gone? 



11 



THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER. 

What stone to what tinder 

With no worlds to hinder 

When God is left alone, 

In His midnight all alone, 
His song in His heart His own? 

Ah blessed is he who the reaper may be 
Of the seeds his God hath sown. 

Thrice blessed is he who the bearer may be 
Of the harvest no hand hath strown. 
When the story is penned to the very end, 

To the denouement none hath known, 

(Save the author, the author alone,) 
When the sins of the world, to oblivion hurled, 

With oblivion shall atone, 

With midnight for their own, 

Dead midnight all their own, 
What wonderful note from what wonderful throat 

With what wonderful impulse blown, — 

In the ultimate darkness blown, — 
Shall He strike for what audience in what strange gaudience 

Shining where none hath shone? 
Shall He strike for what listeners to what new bliss in airs 

Never by mortals known? 
What new light then shall He be for what strange eyes to see, 

Shining where stars where strown? 

Alight and alove, alone ! 

O Thou Vast Midnight of God, hear this song of the sod 
And forget not my prayer in thine own, 
My prayer for the Dawn, in thine own, 
My song in my midnight — alone." 

Comes the hour when the blackness quails before the Morning Star 

And the Old Moon's mellow grace, 
Red-litten by a strange Earth-shine, a comrade's love from far, 

A-glow, unconscious, on his fellow's face, 

In his own midnight on his fellow's face. 

And he who met the Darkness with a song 
And counted it a harbinger of noon 

12 



THE MIDNIGHT MUMMER. 

Is crowned with glory on his rotting prong, 
Unsaddened by the low, senescent moon, 
Unmaddened by the dull, decrescent moon, 
For a star proclaims a coming — coming, soon. 

A robin is waking his mate, 

For the east is aflush with the Dawn, 
And a Jenny-wren twitters, " 'Tis late, 'tis late, 

Haste, the bugs are abroad on the lawn !" 
And the flicker peeps out from the hole where he stayed 
With a "rat-a-tat-tat, Wake up, who's afraid?" 
(Tho the hollow was deep where he stayed) 

So the Jay-bird screams : "Lo, the first sun-beams, 

And no-evil, no-evil, how nice the sun seems, 
My, but didn't it blow where I stayed !" 

And the cat-bird opens her fearful eyes 

With a plaintive : "I knew that the sun would rise ! 

What a noise that mocking bird made : 

What an outrageous noise he made !" 

But, anon, in the shadowed valley, a reverent veery wakes, 

A-thrill with the vision-music the Master Mummer makes — 

A-fill with Hermisian music, in vaster summer brakes, — 

The sweeter, meeter music by far Elysian lakes. 

And the silent bush and the swaying rush are a-dream of the won- 

derland 
To one fair bird who, listening, heard the song of the ultra-band. 
And the tones of his tongue are tender and softer his steps on the 

sand, 
That a thrush in the hush of the trackless brush should hearken and 

understand, 
One, wise in the wisdom of midnight, of many, could understand. 

Atlanta, Ga., Spring of 1910. 



13 



BABY'S EASTER. 

So sleepy — oh, so sleepy, he, 

For mother's arms are warm, 
And Mother's baby blinks so snug, 

So safe from Bogie's harm — 
And wakes to laugh at one who loves 

To love his little form. 
So sleepy — oh, so sleepy, he, 

Oh, none so sleepy is ; 
His little smiles are tired, too, 

And beg for coming bliss, 
Until his father bendeth low 

And wakes them with a kiss. 



So fevered — oh, so fevered, he, 

So low his little moan, 
O baby's tiny, burning brow, 

O mother's deathened groan, 
O guardian angel bending down, 

Save thou, he is thine own ! 
No whitened hand clutched piteously, 

No brow so hot as his; 
And little lips are moveless now 

Where baby's din-din is, 
Until his Father bendeth low 

And wakes them with a kiss. 



Clinton, S. C, 1904. 



14 



THE COMET. 

With face ever full on thy King, 

Thy tresses alight with His love, 
Thou comest, O Queen, O Fair, 

From the regions where mysteries move, 
From the land of the whispered word, 

Where the voice of thy Lord is low, 
The voice of thy wonderful, wonderful Lord 

Is low — low — low. , 



Back to the family hearth, 

To the charm of thy Master's light, 
Though it faded away in thine ultimate gloom 

As a candle sinks in the night, 
But still His word was abroad 

And the tone thereof compelled, 
The tone of thy masterful, masterful Lord 

Compelled, compelled. 

In companionless silences found, 

From the lure of the Far Country free, 
(Though never so far but the thought of thy home 

Could follow and master thee), 
When the time to return had come 

The path to thy Lord grew plain, 
The path to thy summoning, summoning Lord 

Grew plain, grew plain. 

Was the song of thy sisters sweet 

As they circled the common light, 
And the fleckless eye of thy lover clear 

As he searched thee out in the night? 
Afar in the bosom of Gloom — 

Yet the eye of thy Lord was there, 
The eye of thy beautiful, beautiful Lord 

Was there, was there ! 



15 



THE COMET. 

In the unneighbored wastes of God, 

O waif from the wilderness come, 
Told any to thee of the Thither-land 

Where worlds are wandering home? 
The ultimate goal of the years 

Which the will of thy Lord hath prepared, 
The will of thy hastening, hastening Lord 

Hath prepared, prepared? 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



16 




"BEYOND THE FALLS" 
"And then beyond the Mill, the Bridge, and then- 
The Land to which He calls!" 



BEYOND THE FALLS. 

Beyond the village limits, woods and muscadines, 

Beyond the woods the long, red, pine-topped hills ! 
Beyond the hills the ancient roadway winds 

Its way in leisured peace to Musgrove Mills. 
Beyond the mills — the river, Horse-shoe Falls, 

Beyond the Falls — ah, they who stood with me, 
In utter wonder ceased from boyish brawls, 

Awed by the fleeing road that none could see 
The end of, felt the wondrous thralls 

Of luring mystery, 
And pondered whither led, beyond the falls, 
The road to Enoree. 



O sandy, muddy way, outstretched before the wheel, 

O'er-topping mountains for a goal to be, 
Bridging each chasm with thy stone and steel, 

Leaping each turgid stream, to onward flee, 
O road so dear, so wise, can none delay, 

Can none turn back "the impulse of thy soul? 
Is this the weighty message thou wouldst say 

To those who weakly quake at unseen goal? 
To those who cannot hear the voice that calls 

From mystic ecstasy, 
And lures thee, unsuspecting, on beyond the falls, 
Beyond the Enoree ! 



O silent road for loads of many lands, 

Thou dost alike to foe and comrade give, 
Whose crumbling homes have mingled with thy sands, 

Whose names have come and gone while thou dost live. 
O thou left comradeless by time's fell blows, 

Dost gently hasten to thine ancient friends — 
Old Enoree, who ever onward flows, 

And Horse-shoe Falls who never, never ends — 
And on beyond, into the Mystic Land, 

The land to which He calls, 
And on — O bearer of the quick and dead, 
Whither — beyond the falls? 



17 



BEYOND THE FALLS. 

Speak of the woods that darken, here, my way, 

Thou dear, old, memoried road to Enoree. 
Interpret to my heart the wondrous play 

Of wisdom on the path One builds for me. 
Tell of the bridging of a thousand streams, 

The passing of the mountains, undelayed, 
Of bird-thronged meadows, spread for him who dreams, 

The River, waiting, when the end is made, 
And then, beyond the Mill, the Bridge, and then — 

The Land to which He calls — 
Whither, O Builder of the Ways of Men, 
Whither — beyond the Falls? 

Nashville, Tenn., 1908. 



IS 



MISERERE. 

Jehovah, God of Sabaoth, Preparer of Columbia's place, 
Who of thy peoples, ever doth find chiefest favor in thy face, 
Ascended to thy Holy Hill, behold thy chosen of thy grace. 

Thou long-rememb'ring God who brought our fathers in the teeth 

of storm, 
Thy terror-tutored, billow-taught, thy faithful, fettered to thy form, 
In love-led liberty ; thine own in famished anguish, thine alone : 

O call us back to that dear time of sweated brow, of earthen bowl, 
While yet the law forbade our crime, contemned not as im-potent 

role, 
The hour when Justice claimed the part lest Mercy terrorize the 

whole. 

Ah, give us back our honest want with safety from the bribed suit; 
Our graftless trees with honor gaunt and guiltless of forbidden 

fruit ; 
Homes unadorned, all beautiful with virtue, swept of Achan's loot. 

Unloosed of Law, sleek-fed by Fate, we multiply our countless slain, 
Crime, pardoned, mocks the palsied State, unmindful of thy brand 

of Cain. 
A godless folk, save only Greed, unmastered save by Gain. 

Alone, of all thy breeds, we o'erturn thine altars, ignorant of Fear, 
Alone, of all thy chosen, burn our fellows in the curse-red air, 
Alone preserve for future boast their charred bones, their clotted 
hair. 

What nation, Lord, that thou hast known hath waxen fat upon thy 

gifts, 
In boundless bounty, giant-grown, upon thy Holy Hill who lifts 
Such gory hands as we to him whose sieve the failing peoples sifts? 

Once manlier winnings in the wood, past purer harvests of the field, 
Lost cottage, redolent of good, with valor floored, with rov'rence 

cieled, 
Recallest these, and art thou wroth, Jehovah, God of Sabaoth? 

19 



MISERERE. 

If yet within thy heart may burn a passion for thy blood-red ones — 
Sin-offerings demi-gods would spurn, accepted of thy murd'rous 

sons, — 
No first-born claim from king to cot, O One-time Judge, long since 

forgot. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



20 



A BOY TO HIS MOTHER. 

Unknown, ideal, unseen mother, 
Whom I love though I have known not, 
Whom I worship unremembered, 
Sacred are the words they tell me of thy love and thy devotion, 
Sacred are the thoughts they bring me, of thee, sweetest of all 

mothers. 
Sacred too, shall be this picture, given by thine oldest brother 
To the youngest of thy children. Guarded by the watchful tiger, 
May it keep its vigils o'er me. Mingled with the black and orange, 
Woven by a sister's fingers, may its soul-transforming influence 
Change the hand that rests upon it, light the eyes that burn be- 
holding, 
Purify the heart adoring, change them as they come to worship, 
Make them like their sainted mother, make them like her Holy 
Master. 

I have heard the sweet musician of the wildwood as he lingers 
'Neath the cool and shady bowers, I have heard his notes ecstatic 
As he rises slowly upward, and the wood-fowl, hushed in wonder, 
Listened with me to the music ; heard and sought to find the singer, 
As his notes were growing softer, sweeter, purer, while he mounted 
To the starlit Empyrean, and the echoes, soft returning 
Moved my heart in sweetest measure, lifted up my eyes to heaven ; 
Till I saw the exultant singer slowly melting in the vision 
Of the far blue deep above me. 

So I listen to the music of my unknown, unseen mother, 
Music of a life-stream murmuring to its bed of love and duty ; 
Notes of joy when in the sunshine danced the wavelets on its sur- 
face, 
Mingled voice of hope and courage when beneath the darkening 

shadows 
Gather now the troubled waters. Till the current, rich in power, 
Sweeps once more into the sunlight, gently soothes the bickering 

shallows, 
Passes onward to the ocean of the everlasting future. 
And the earth's last wooden glory marks the resurrection morning. 



21 



A BOY TO HIS MOTHER. 



Passing precious such life music, for it lifts the eyes far upward 
Till they view the singer resting in the bosom of the heavens, 
Melting in the hidden glory, resting on the Master's bosom. 

Deep in reverie at evening, gazing at the unbottomed heavens, 
I have sat with eyes unconscious of the beauteous, starlit meadows, 
Heeding not the zephyr kisses nor their odors rich, fresh gathered, 
Won in deepest secret from the sweetest of the trembling lilies ; 
Hearing not the merry voices from the honey-suckle bowers, 
Thought unconscious, heart deep dreaming, till the stars had veiled 

their glory, 
Till the zephyrs passed offended and the voices died in silence, 
Till I woke and quickly summoned to my side the passed sensations, 
Caught the accents of the voices, felt the gentle zephyr kisses, 
Saw the beauty of the flowers in the Father's heaven meadow, 
Heard and saw and felt the better for the silence and the stillness, 
For the darkness of the heavens. 

So these eyes that saw unconscious thee, the sweetest of all mothers, 
And these lips that felt the kisses dearer far than any others. 
And these ears that heard, unheeding, baby lullabys angelic ; 
In the future shall awaken, shall not ever sleep in darkness. 
When the tumult of life's passions and the babel of its voices 
Shall have died away forever, and my soul is left in quiet ; 
When my eyes have seen sufficient of life's evanescent drama 
And my heart is satiated with its never satisfying 
Gifts and never answered callings, blasted hopes and withered pleas- 
ures, 
When the roar and din and clamor shall have passed away forever, — 
In the silence of that darkness scenes long gone shall re-enlighten, 
I shall see thee as thou bendedst o'er the cradle of my childhood, 
I shall feel thy warm love kisses when I rested on thy bosom, 
I shall hear the voice that lulled my baby-soul to sweetest slumber. 
Farthly form and earthly voice and earthly lips I shall remember. 
In the silence of the Sunset 
In the darkness of the Evening. 

Clinton, S. C, 1895. 



22 



HE TRAVELS ON. 

This is the time to kiss the light, 

Now — it is day. 
This is the time to speak the word 

You'll sometime say: 
To smooth it out — he soon is gone, 
Say now the word — he travels on. 

This is the time to draw the thorn 

Most gently out, 
Now, while he still may tremble on, 

Still get about. 
It stings today and he is here : 
Tomorrow — look thou on his bier. 

E'en now he needs must thank you 

Tremblingly 
And foolish tears o'erflow the eyes 

That used to see. 
Make glad his heart, he'll soon be gone ; 
Speak now the word — he travels on. 

Clinton, S. C, 1905. 



23 



OPPORTUNITY. 

Fleet king of humankind I run each course 

Of earth until the race is done. Nor is 

It given me to wait by any gate 

Nor once to pause at any door. Didst see 

The Dim One, he who ran before thee in 

Thy darkness? Knewest not whether friend to aid 

Or foe who would prevent thee at thy goal, 

Was near? 'Twas I, who follow one man e'er 

And in advance of other runners go. 

Didst hear low tones, as if one urged thee to 

Thy right, yet closedst fast thine eyes and stoppedst 

Thine ears so siren-like they were and full 

Of sweet persuading? It was I, who still 

Before thee was when thou hadst turned thy left. 

Once thou didst pause and notedst well the prints 
Of some who ran in haste lest they should lose 
The long sought gold — at rainbow's tip, and yet 
Didst turn thee to another way? Th' were mine, 
Thine opportunity's. And those of many 
Another man who pressed me sore and grasped 
Me at the parting of the ways. Thou then 
Didst fail to follow. Now, O Deedless One, 
Thou must precede me to thy fate, nor canst 
Thou ever reach to front for better choice. 
What time I ran before thou graspedst not, 
Untouched now I follow thee to God. 
Clinton, S. C, 1904. 



24 




"SQUARE ROUND" 

"The meadowed landscape, lush with life, 
Bends low at Death's dark portal." 



SQUARE ROUND ! 

The wind is whistling to the trees, 

His dirge of winter coming, 
The robins all have southward flown ; 

The bees have holed their humming. 
Square round ! and let us closer be, 

And warm to cheery spirit. 
The good we each in other see 

The more that we sit near it. 



The dew has whitened o'er the field 

Of flowers the veery sings of. 
His flood of joy the snow has sealed, 

The No which winter stings of. 
Then come, let's gather round the fire, 

Nor lose one mellowed minute. 
Though darkness and the rain's without, 

No matter, we're not in it ! 



The meadowed landscape, lush with life, 

Bends low at death's dark portal. 
Each seared leaf that feels the knife 

Reminds us we are mortal. 
Square round ! and we will closer be, 

We'll warm our wintry spirit. 
For darkness, we'll cheer up the blaze, 

The rain ! why should we hear it ! 



Blue aster, last to Lethe led, 

Restores to Heaven her color. 
The gloomy hall of Sheol's dead 

Each year is growing fuller. 
Who knows how soon will come the day 

When we will help to fill it? 
Thy heart beats strong each systole? 

An hour strikes to still it ! 



25 



SQUARE ROUND. 

Square round ! let's all get near the fire 
And warm our wintry spirit. 

For darkness? Roll a new back-log! 
The rain? We will not hear it! 



Clinton, S. C, 1890. 



26 



THINE HOUR SHALL COME. 

The waiting soul is sick for work to be; 

The eye looks languid at slow-passing days; 

The heart beats wearily each systole, 

And frets at opportunity's delayed pace. 

Yet fill, O Soul, with hope Thy faithless gloom, 
For to thee, hoping not, Thine hour shall come. 

Thou longest for the sweatings of the race 
And for the burdens that must needs be borne? 
Thou understandest not the toiling pace 
Of moments that prepare thee for the crown. 

So fill, O Soul, with hope thy faithless gloom, 
For all too soon at last Thine hour shall come. 

Clinton, S. C, 1905. 



27 



THE FIRST DAY. 
"And the evening and the morning were the first day." 

On an ocean's bosom bright and blue, 

In a land not far away, 
A beautiful ship with a joyous crew 

Was gliding peacefully, 
And afar to the prow, under cloudless skies, 

As they bounded away from the shore, 
Stood a strong, young lad with glistening eyes, 

Ever eagerly looking before. 

No tears were there nor were wont to be, 

Nor sorrowful, heaving breast; 
No sigh for the home he would long to see, 

Where oft he would long to rest! 
For he thought of the heaven, bright and blue, 

Of the ocean, wild and free, 
And he thought of the ship so staunch and true, 

And he dreamed of the untried sea. 



O'er the treacherous ocean's heaving blue 

Near a land in the faraway, 
A shattered ship with a shattered crew 

Was seeking a friendly bay. 
And afar to the stern as the clouds gathered fast, 

And the breakers began to roar, 
Bent a shattered man with his eyes on the past 

Dreaming of childhood's shore. 

And bitter tears there fell unseen, 

And there was the heaving breast, 
And the sigh for the home where he might have been, 

Where nevermore he would rest. 
For he thought of the howling wintry bias*-, 

And he thought of the raging sea; 
And he longed for an harbor where storms are past, 

The harbor where soon he would be. 

Clinton, S. C, 1896. 

28 



A SONG OF A WRONG. 

My sweetheart came in the springtime 

As the dearest of Loves oft do, 
And she gave me a song when the day was long, 

And she said, "I am true ! I am true !" 
And she said, "Have you heard of Love, my lad? 

Of the waters the dreamers drink? 
Come, taste of rest on a sweetheart's breast 

And lean o'er the crystal brink, 
The leering, luring brink, 

The brink where the dream-drunk drink !" 
Then the hours sped happily, happily on, 

The moments sang merrily by, 
And she showed me the Deep where the passions sleep 

Till she comes and they wake, and the passions leap ! 
For very love they leap ! 

And she showed me the sky where ambitions fly 
Till she leaves and they falter, they quiver, they die! 

For very love they die ! 
The passions — she came and the passions leapt ! 

Ambitions — she left and ambitions slept ! 
When she left me alone to die. 

When she said (for believing the day grew dark) 
"I will never come back again !" 

Grew black with quenching each lone hope-spark 
When she left me alone in my pain, 

Alone, alone in my pain ! 

But my love came back in the springtime, 

(On the Eastertide as before) 
And she gave me her hand in a lonely land , 

And she said : "We will part nevermore !" 
And she said : "Take me back and my love shall not lack 

Take me back, take me back, I implore !" 
Then my arms were around her, my heart in her hands, 

My form at her feet as of yore — 
My form at her feet, my heart at her feet, 

My soul at her feet as of yore — 



29 



A SONG OF A WRONG. 

For my life is my love's — Evermore ! 

Then the hours sped happily, happily on 
And the moments sang merrily by, 

And she showed me the Deep where the passions sleep 
Till she comes and they wake and the passions leap! 

For very love they leap ! 
And she showed me the sky where ambitions fly 

Till she leaves and they falter, they quiver, they die ! 
For very love they die! 

But love will come and love will go 
Though every heartstring sever, 

But oh, the pain when you love them so 
And must love on forever! 

For my Love came back in the springtime 

(At the Eastertide as of yore) 
And she gave me a blow in the Easter-glow 

And she said : ''I can love no more !" 
A blow in the Deep (where the passions sleep), 

When she said : "I will love no more !" 
With unfaithful fist — (E'en the fickle winds hissed! 

And the changing moon laughed as they hissed, as they hissed), 
When she said: "I will love no more!" 

i And he cried : "More faithful to every bride 

Am I than a woman I know ! 
Than a heartless hunk I know !" 

Now this is the song and this is the wrong 

Of a man whose heart was broken 
By a love who sought and a love who brought 

To him Truth's every token, 
To him who heard of plighted word 

Each pledge, each vow thrice spoken, 
To him and God who bent and heard 

Each vow, each oath thrice spoken. 
Yet love will come and love will go 

Though every heartstring sever ! 
But oh, the pain when you love them so! 

And must love on forever ! 

Morganton, N. C, 1902. 

30 



DESERTED. 

I am longing, ever longing for the light, 

For the land where God's great, golden glory rolls : 
I am longing for the ending of the night, 

For the land where Death's eternal death-knell tolls. 

Longing for the dawning light, 

Longing for the dying night, 

But the hand upon her silent heart is His who knows no right. 

I am working, ever working toward the light, 

Ever dreaming of her coming as of old, 
Looking westward, and I hail with rare delight 

Th' expiring Day-King's freighted breaths of dusty gold — 

Dying breaths of dusty light, 

Whispers of his hopeless flight, 

Fleeing frightened to my soul whose love-flames mock the deep- 
ening night. 

I am watching, ever watching for the light, 

Ever jealous for the hand the angels hold, 
Looking eastward where I see her glances bright, 

Where approaching footsteps fall on clouds of gold — 

Lost, and in the deepening night! 

Lonely in the laughing light, 

Listening for the soft death-rustle of the dark winged angels' 
flight. 

I am waiting, ever waiting for the light, 

For Jehovah's flame she gently bore away 
When she left me for the West-gate, now the night 

In a darkened soul strives to beget the day — 

Listening for the angel's flight, 

Shivering in the lonely night, 

Waiting for the Dawn to come and with it — with it, Love and 
Light ! 

Morganton, N. C, 1901. 

31 



THE LITTLE MAID OF MU. 

Raise ye high the glasses, brothers, 

Mix your life-blood with the wine, 
And drink with lips red-wrought of love 

And fellowship divine. 
Drink to the little maid of Mu 

Whose heart is wholly thine. 
Her mem'ry be forever blest, 

The little maid of Mu, 
Who pleads with us to toil and trust 

And deeds of love to do. 



Then here's to Him who lives and loves, 

All hail, thou Lord of Mu. 
Here's to thy sword that flashes bright 

In gleams of glimmering blue, 
Here's to her heart, love-taught of God, 

As His bright sword, so true. 
Hark, how the glasses join in joy, 

Clinking right merrily — 
No silent tongue, no hollow word 

Of insincerity ! 



When He shall lift the veil before, 

The last great Master-Pi, 
Who loved his brothers well so that 

For them his soul must die, 
Who loves his brothers still as doth 

The Father-God on high — 
There'll be no happier heart in heaven — 

With joy thrilled through and through — 
Than thine to whom His love has given 

The little maid of Mu. 

Dedicated to the Sisters of Mu chapter and written at the request 
of the Brothers, for the Annual Banquet. 

Clinton, S. C, 1893. 

32 




"THE SONG OF THE RAIN" 

"We follow the tug that takes no rest, 
We feel for the ultimate goal." 



THE SONG OF THE RAIN. 

"From the uppermost lips of the star-kissed sky, 
From the outermost tips of her gown, 

We follow the will that tells not why 
We fall forever down — 

We drift, we mist, we drop, we pour, we dart — 

She calls, she draws, she hurls us to her heart! 

To the innermost depths of her lightless breast, 
To the uttermost core of her soul, 

We follow the tug that takes no rest, 
We feel for the ultimate goal. 

And when we fail: — 'Tis a river's crest, 
And a flood to the sea doth roll. 

We drift, we mist, we hear, we storm, we start, 

She calls, she draws, she hurls us to her heart! 

Our eyes are set toward the center of things, 

To the rock wherein we die, 
Tho we linger long while the veery sings 

By the deeps where the brook-trout lie, 
And we lend ourselves to cows and kings, 

Till the river bed is dry. 
Till we die in her breast where the last heat clings 

With the ocean bed left dry. 
Till mist and cloud and thunderstorm are part 
Of her who draws, who hurls them to her heart." 

Ten thousand times ten thousand times ! 

O urgent song of the rain 
From all the skies of all the climes 

Go, seek thy goal again ! 
Go find her heart — and all the chimes, 

Of Earth in dust are lain. 
Go chill her breast and all the mimes, 

Of Earth with sleep are slain. 
Lost in her breast ! Lo, all the rhymes, 



33 



THE SONG OF THE RAIN. 

Of earthly bliss are vain! 
Her sad, unceasing requiem thou art, 
Who calls, who draws, who hurls you to her heart. 

And when thy last drop oozes through 

The chill of her crystalline breast. 
Her Love, with a passionate crash, shall woo 

His mate, in white hot zest. 
And the will of the flame sl»all call thee to 

Another age-long quest: — 
The will of the flame of the crash of the two 

Thy drops from the stones shall wrest. 
You rise, you mist, you hear, you storm, you start, 
She calls, she draws, she hurls you to her heart. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



34 



FRAGMENTS. 

Lo, they who lash themselves to bring to pass 

Events, as they who dream o'er emptied glass, 

Alike must wait upon the word of him 

Who, never hurried, never cries "Alas." 

Yet, he who bides for fabled alchemist 

To turn his earth to gold or on the fist 

Of Vulcan for his statue this should know: — 
Business revives when strives th' revivalist. 

And he who would the eternal word indite 
Or stay the immortal saying in its flight, 

Must breathless hear the breathing of that Voice, 
Which no man heareth oft nor oft aright. 

The Voice that in the feathered lute enthralls, 

The Voice that from the golden West-gate falls 

And in the stormings of the starless night 

Doth murmur at the pines — He calls — He calls! 



Who o'er the past belated oil is burning 

And for much pain a little wisdom earning 

Yet needeth this to read! Far more of learning 
Lives and throbs in life than life in learning. 



O, why attempt his ways to understand 

Who sees beyond the prize our hearts demand? 

The weed thrives, noxious, in the father's yard 

Whose dying child appeals with outstretched hand. 

No room in all God's Universe of things 
For one more little boy — the robin rings 

The world with joy, the while the baby hears 
The fated rustling of the darkened wings. 



35 



FRAGMENTS. 

No moments left, and He the King of all! 

No bribe of love or duty to recall 
A little while ! Yet, aeons come and go 

For rat and reptile : His the dreaded pall. 



Ah ! Who can say how far the mother's cry 
From anguished heart doth penetrate the sky, 

How gently from his throne beyond all sense, 
A Father stoopeth lest a child should die? 



A few more steps ! Ah, this the wondrous stone 
With which a thousand battles have been won, 

The rounding of a hill, a corner turned 

And lo, the world is changed, the darkness gone! 



And when the grape her word of praise doth say, 
How sweet oblivion sorrow doth allay, 

Be this my prayer: "Take all my joy, O God, 
Take all my store, but not my pain away." 

My pain, that doth alone my fault indict, 
Alone, unbribed, warn of impending night, 

Alone, of many boasted sages, know 

The face of treacherous wrong and faithful right. 



For once within a House of Him most High, 
I heard his preacher thus in fervor cry: 

"So just and gentle in his love for thee 

His heart is pained at thy slightest sigh. 

"Nor sin nor pain are of his plan a part 

Nor widow's weeds nor mother's anguished heart, 

Nor may he blamed be for wrong and tears 

More than the wheelwright for the broken cart." 



36 



FRAGMENTS. 

So toward the field this easy creed to try 

I fared and lo, at coiled snake a cry 
From mother-bird bereaved of her young 

Who, dainty morsels for the monster, die! 

And if this answer none doth dare to make, 

Which on his Lord would cast the dread mistake, 

Let none reply to him, who thus blasphemes : — 

"Who made the cat-bird's young and who the snake?" 



Musing beside a mighty press we stood, 

Where printed was the tale of earth's sad brood 

With poisoned ink-mass ! Yet the types were clear 
And they who caught the meaning called it good. 

Thus long ago my answer I did drink 

From law and chance and wisdom, link and link 

Could e'en a God write out the tale of earth 
Without his poisoned pot of needful ink? 



Some to past marvels of Jehovah bow, 

Some tell of glories hastening to his brow 

But of the dreamers who awake to say 

What song the Rock of Ages singeth now! 

Nashville, Tenn., Atlanta, Ga., 1905-10. 



37 



THE DREAM OF THE RIVER. 

Attacoa ! mount so near the heavens that the starry throng 
Rest upon thy craggy bosom, weary when their watch is long; 
Yet so earthly that thy pale-cheeked laurels come when darkness set- 
tles, 
Steal my little maiden's blush to copy in their creamy petals : 

List, O thou who wear'st the golden mantles of the dying sun, 
Of the pure Tarquoee maidens hast thou seen the fairest one? 
Lingers she in all thy valleys? Is she waiting for me there 
Where to die upon her bosom is the kneeling violet's prayer? 

Still I hear the veery calling to the lonesome Toyahneeta, 
And the echo, soft returning, bids me come to meet her — meet her ! 
Come into the purple shadows, meet her by the sleeping river, 
Dreaming that upon his banks a lover found and loved forever. 

Found her kissed with western glories, met her by the shadowed 

water, 
Marked her hand with gold and blood as Love doth mark his every 

daughter 
Pressed her madly to his — Dream, O River, dream it o'er and o'er! 
For thy dream alone is left me neath the mystic Attacoa ! 

Morganton, N. C, 1901. 



38 



THE ECHO. 

Attacoa, mystic altar of the Manitou, thy spirit 

Still I see and, and leaning on Thee, Time who all things doth 

inherit, 
All but thee whose rugged crags stand epitaphs of by-gone ages, 
All but thee whose stones, eternal, calm her reckless, ruthless rages, 
All but thee whose furrowed brow frowns down upon her newer 

pages. 

Summon now the vanished maidens of the mighty Tuscaroras, 
Bid them chant the plaintive strains of lovelorn melodies before us, 
Melodies of mountain dells where wren and woodthrush daily dally, 
Yet I know a stranger strain than Indian maiden's plaintive sally 
And I hear its far-off echo in the fair Tarquoee valley. 

Wandering, never-dying echo, ever and anon returning 

To their birth-spot, seeking still the lips that mothered : lips once 

burning 
With a fiercer flame than lit the fires of the Attacoa, 
Redder than the blood that gushed from chiefs who perished to 

adore, 
Deeper passioned than the frenzied souls who watched thine altar 

glower. 

Thus they say her voice from fair Tarquoee has long since departed 
For the deeper vales and hollows of my bosom, broken hearted, 
There I seek my Love who perished with the winter's icy breaths, 
Mid my soul's for-get-me-nots and laurel crowns and ivy wreaths, 
In the deep dark, lonely valley of the shadow of her death. 

Morganton, N. C, 1901. 



39 



MY LITTLE MAID. 

I listen alone in the moonlight, 

At the edge of the forest-glade, 
And dream of the moonbeams kissing 

The lips of my little maid; 
Remember the wood-lily fading 

On the breast that it taught to fade; 
The pure, white, wood-lily fading 

On the breast it besought to fade. 

Yet, vanished her form is beautiful, 

And her heart is the heart of love ; 
For I watch till her bright eyes glisten 

From the dark of her home above; 
And I know that her soul is moving, 

As the steps of the angels move ; 
Her crystalline soul is moving 

In the depths where the angels movi 

Forsaking earth's wooden glory 

Of forest-shadowed gloom, 
Forth to the heaven-meadow 

Where fadeless lilies bloom, 
We, arm in arm together, 

Some day shall wander home; 
We, arm in arm together, 

In wonder, wander home. 



Clinton, S. C, 1894. 



A{) 



/ 




"THE SOUTHBOUND MAIL" 

"With the urge of God in her driving rod 
And the hurry of hell in her heels." 



THE SOUTH-BOUND MAIL. 

With the urge of God in her driving rod 

And the hurry of hell in her heels, 
A train screams forth from the storm-throbbed North, 

To the thrust of her steam-thrilled wheels, 
Vain Vega shrinks as Polaris sinks 

For the stars of the South arise, 
And the meteor's wing, like a broken thing, 

Is stayed in mute surprise. 

Blood-flecked her guard with careless blood 

Who loitered on her path — 
Rude threats of death from blackened breath 

Of elemental wrath — 
The howl of the rail on her trembling trail 

And the shout of the bridge, amazed — 
'Tis the Thing to be Read — What matter the dead 

With the Hurricane outpaced? 

The semaphores shrink at the monster they blink at 

Who trusts to their tremulous light, 
And the storm that sweeps after brings hysteric laughter 

Of lumbering freights, a- fright. 
The hireling train who hastens for gain 

Awaits her time on the rails, 
And the limiteds hiss in terror till this 

Tornado hurls the mails. 

With the urge of God in her driving rod 

And the hurry of hell in her heels — 
So screams she forth from the storm-throbbed North 

To the thrust of her steam-thrilled wheels; 
So screams she forth from the want-whirled North 

To the land with peace encased — 
This matchless mail whose words avail 

To mock the winds, outpaced. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



41 



JUS' A-WHISTLIN' TO KEEP UP 'IS COU'AGE! 

Dar goes ole Mister March Win' a-whistlin by my do' ; 
Pears like he's mighty stout jus' cause dar's been a little snow, 
Jus' like as tho' the winter was a-comin' stead o' goin', 
Jus' like as tho' I ain't done seen de little buds a-growin'. 

Ain't I done know 

You gotta go? 

Ain't I done seen 

De comin' green? 
Ain't I done hearn dem little birds a-singin' of yo' dirge, 
An' you's jus' whistlin' dar, suh, a-keepin' up your cou'age. 

Hoi' up dar, Mister March Win', an' sit hyar by my do', 
You'll git dar soon enough, sah, d' ain't no use hurryin' so ! 
I knows what you's a-whistlin'; I knows jus' what you says — 
"I'se gwine be hyar always, sah, I'se gwine be hyar always." 

A little snow 

A-flyin'— flyin', 

An' dar you go, 

A-lyin' — lyin'— 
An' jus' because you's gotta go you think you's gotta splurge, 
An' all de time us niggers know you's whistlin' f er your cou'age ! 

Ain't I been settin' round dis do' nigh on a hundud year — 
De snow a-fallin' down, sah, continual on dis hair? 
I 'lows dat in my time, sah, dis nigger's done some blowin' 
Jes' like as tho' his years was a-comin' stead o' goin — 

But ain't I know 

I gotta go? 

Aain't I done seen 

De comin' sheen? 
'Pear like it's kinder natchul, when dey's slippin' to'uds de verge, 
Fer win' an' nigger both to sorter whistle fer dey cou'age. 

Nashville, Tenn., 1905. 



42 



OLE MAN FEVER. 

Wen Ole Man Fever comes along 

I leaves de do' wide open; 
It 'sures me I'll git back outside, 

And keeps my heart a-hopin' ; 
I stands my fishin' pole right dar 

Beside dat can o' bait; 
I figures dat all fishermens 

Is laid up soon or late — 
Ole Fever-ever-iver-o, 
He come along and shets de do' ! 

An' dis de day de little boy 

An' me was goin' fishin' ! 
Dar he sits now on dat ole stump 

A-wishin' an' a-wishin. 
Can't understan', dat little boy, 

Dat 'twixt de bait an' bite 
Anudder feller steals along 

An' locks de fish-man tight — 
Ole Fever-ever-iver-o, 
He come along, an' shets de do' ! 

De white folks neber tole me yit 

Wat makes 'im do dat way; 
Ole Marster dug 'is bait sometimes 

An' laid in bed next day; 
Sometimes, I 'low, he shets de do', 

A way no man kin open — 
Dat's why I eyes my fishin' pole, 

An' lie in bed a-hopin' 
Ole Fever-ever-iver-o, 
Won't come along an' shet de do ! 

Newton Center, Mass., 1908. 



43 



THE LONELY SEA. 

'Tis midday, yet the blackness settles round, 

All, all are leaving me! 
The fever's flush, the dimness ! Now the sound 

Of waters ceaselessly — 
Of waters moving dark and darker to 

An end to be. 
A little boat alone awaits, ah, lo, 

The sea, the lonely sea ! 

So slowly now, so gently do we glide, 

The blackness hath its way, 
No light gleams dimly from the other side 

Where dwells the day. 
No little light — how dark the waters move, 

How ceaselessly! 
But 'tis the ocean of His boundless love, 
The sea, the lonely sea ! 

Newton Center, Mass., 1908. 



44 



A TALE OF A TEDDY. 

From the days when the world was a bottle of milk, 

And the earth a plane of light, 
When noises were terrible things in themselves, 

And mother a strange, new sight, 
The little boy learned of a big brown bear 

Who sat by his side to defend, 
And he reached out his hands for the first love strokes 

Of his Ancient Companion and Friend. 

Then things came to be, strange monsters on wheels, 

New creatures to creep and crawl, 
A bow-wow, a moo-cow, a kitty-cat — these — 

But he loved him more than them all. 
For out of his eyes looked the friendship of years 

And at night when they lay in their bed 
He whispered such things in the little boy's ears, 

Who told all his secrets to Ted. 

Strange things of a life he had lived in the days 

When all of the world could play, 
When only the game was the universe 

And Heaven a cloudless day. 
O what wonderful worlds they whispered of, 

When fearful of father's frown, 
When the lights went out and the night-wind groaned 

And mother had lain them down. 

Then the woman came and the school and the things 

She told of that none could see, 
Of the Christmas-tide and the children who prayed 

For gifts that never could be, 
Of the Christ-child — O wonderful woman to show 

Him, so young, what the few rarely prove — 
How the gift of the gods is the very best gift, 

And loved with the very best love. 

She asked— and they brought her their Christmas gifts 

For the giftless — to throw away; 
Their broken moo-cows and kitty-cats, 



45 



A TALE OF A TEDDY. 

Their bow-wows, bought for a day. 
But the little boy offered his big brown bear, 

Who sat by his side to defend, 
And he reached out his hand for the last love strokes 

Of his Ancient Companion and Friend. 

"Now don't you tell mamma" he slowly explained, 

"Nor Daddy, they won't understand. 
They told me to bring you the muley-mule 

Or the clown that broke his hand, 
But they wouldn't do for the little, poor boys 

For I don't love them at all." 
And the woman looked at the thing she had done, 

At the God who had come to her call. 

So she wondered long at the fearful gift 

And she took it home in the night 
To the mother who wept when she told the tale 

As between her tears she might. 
And the cleanser came out with wondering look 

And went back with mysterious smile. 
But the lad lay alone with a happy face 

And a pain that no gift could beguile. 

Lo, the Christmas-tide and the holly-tree gleams 

In blue and red and white, 
But who can return to our Five-year-old 

His friend of noon and night? 
Fair Christmas-tide and the holly tree glows 

In blue and white and red — 
And neath the tree, fresh cleansed and curled 

There waits a great, brown Ted ! 

Gone the days when the world was a bottle of milk 

And the earth a plane of light, 
When noises were terrible things in themselves 

And mother a strange, new sight. 
But a lad sleeps close by a big brown bear 

And his stories never end 
Of the times he once had with another Ted, 

An Ancient Companion and Friend. 

Griffin, Ga., 1910. 

46 



TO MARY. 

O, that I might love thee Mary! 

Press thee one long-feigned kiss! 
But my Mate is passing wary 

Of my plea for added bliss, 
And my Love is pressing chary 

Of a joy she ne'er would miss. 

So whene'er I meet thee, Mary 

Sweet, my heart doth whisper low : — 

"See ! Tis Heaven and laws must vary 
Where the Gods and angels go ! 

Is she not so like a faery 

That thy Mate would never know?" 



Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



\7 



A FORETASTE? 

Dream-face, dream-face, bend above me, 
Trust thine image to my heart. 

Bending — (Lo, 'Tis I who love thee 

Though the Father's prize thou art) 

Trusting — tell my memories of thee 
Till the days of dreams depart. 

As the larkspur's blue of childhood 
Deep, thine eyes to deep did call. 

Lips, as muscadined wildwood, 
Goldened by the glowing Fall, 

Luring sweet — O who, exiled, could 
Fail to crave thy precious thrall? 

Was thy wondrous beauty lent me 
As a thing complete, to charm? 

Or was mystic meaning sent me 
In the glory of thine arm? 

Was a mightier music meant me 
In the rapture of thine arm? 



Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



48 




"THE URGE OF BUSH RIVER" 

"Heeding not the shadowed wood, 
Hardening to the thrush thy heart, 
Suffering ill the angler's cord, 
Fain with peace to part." 



THE URGE OF BUSH RIVER. 

Rippling thro' the wooded wild 

Where the mint and minnow meet, 
Mindest thou thy former child? 

Feelest still his feet? 
O little Pastor of my Dreams 

The years have gone, but thou art here 
And still thy hurried current seems 

To say: "He waits me there!" 

Heeding not the shadowed wood, 

Hardening toward the thrush thy hear* 
Suffering ill the angler's cord, 

Fain with peace to part, 
O luring, unallured stream, 

Wilt whisper to me, pondering here, 
The mystery of thy zeal? Thy dream? 

Thy joy? "He waits thee there?" 

Rememberest then the Bosomed Form 

On which thou sleepedst e'er thy mis 
Awoke amidst the thunderstorm, 

By rainbows kissed? 
Ah ! this the urge that drives thee on, 

In rudeness to the lily, fair, 
To kneeling violet left alone 

In purple rage: "He waits thee there." 

O winnowed wisdom, weather-won, 

Thou mindest me — thou mindest me 
Of bosom-dreams in aeons gone, 

On distant sea, 
Of currents ever homeward bound, 

Of breathings in the untracked aii, 
Of hurried lights and glory round 

The One who Waited there. 



A9 



THE URGE OF BUSH RIVER. 

Ah, little brook, thy waves and mine 

Break ever toward the open sea, 
Nor stone may bar, nor meadowed kine 

A hindrance be. 
We beachward bear our portioned sand, 

The boom of breakers in our ear, 
O harbor of the Father-land, 

He waits us there. 

Clinton, S. C, 1908. 



50 



SHALL THEY BE MINE? 

Tones, witching tones, soft-whispered from some dear, 

Long-past event, 
Rouse, thrill my heart, and vanish with the lips — 

The lips that sent — 
And answer not the cry nor heed the longing, 

Longing soul's lament. 
Tones, tender tones, shall they be mine? 

One only knows : 
A wordless One, inhabiting eternity's repose. 

Low, gentle tones, I know not why I love 

To hear them still, 
Nor why they come, unbidden, in my dreams, 

When long my will, 
In conscious hours has summoned them in vain its craving, 

Craving void to fill. 
Tones, tender tones, shall they be mine? 

One only knows; 
A slumb'ring one who dreameth o'er life's drama to the close. 

Perhaps, some happy day, he'll dream I hear again 

Those accents sweet, 
And on the lips, where coming forth they press 

Their silvery feet, 
I'll print a kiss, long-feigned and passion-wrapt 

When — when we meet. 
Soft, silvery tones, shall they be mine? 

One only knows ; 
Who dreaming each life-drama, draws the curtain at the close. 

Or this may-chance He'll dream; at some 

Strange love's behest, 
Those gentle tones and low shall speak to thrill 

Another breast, 
And leave my soul in weariness to wait 

For love and rest, 
Low, witching tones, shall they be mine? 

One only knows ; 
The seer, only, dreaming o'er life's drama, to the close. 

Morganton, N. G, 1900. 

51 



THE GRAVES ARE THERE. 

O happy little town I love, 

Rememb'rest me? 
O bluest sky that arched above 

My joys in thee, 
O little town of memory; 

O past, so fair, 
See, for my heart returneth now — 

The Graves are there! 

O distant little town I love, 

Here 'gainst this pane, 
My cheek grows cold for thee, 

And, past the rain 
Beating down so furiously, 

Thy forms appear; 
Thy voice calls from the gloom around, 

"The Graves are there !" 

O sorrowed little town I love, 

So mayest thou be 
When comes thy child alone 

To sleep in thee; 
To lay him with the rest 

Safe in thy care, 
To slumber on thy breast — 

The Graves are there ! 



Nashville, Tenn, 1908. 



52 



AT DARK. 

O'er the brink of yonder river where the waving willows weep, 

As the shadows of the sunset over darkening waters creep, 

Thick and fast the dead leaves fall as autumn winds upon them 

sweep. 
And each leaf is bending backward, 
While each hidden bud points forward, 
And each bough looks ever upward, 
As the winds upon them sweep, 
But the hand who turns their hour-glass knows where each dead 

leaf will sleep. 

O'er the sorrowed, tearful river where the weak and weary weep, 
As the shadows of the life-star lengthen toward the awful deep, 
Deadened joys and blighted hopes fall fast before time's onward 

sweep. 
Swift each memory speeds backward, 
While each tear is pointing forward, 
And each heart looks ever upward, 
At the winter's wasting sweep, 
And lo! the Hand who turns their hour-glass gives each weary 

spirit sleep. 

Princeton, N. J., 1898. 



S3 



MY SEARCH FOR GOD. 

I told my soul I would search for God, 

And she bade me gladly try. 
So I wandered long in steps joy-shod, 

Till I wearily laid me by, 
In sorrow's soil to die. 

But from under my head the way I had trod, 
Whispered : "I 

"Am God !" 

I told my soul I would search for God, 

And she bade me sadly try. 
So I beat each beautiful bush with the rod 

Of hope, lest his flame be nigh. 
Then I laid me down with a sigh. 

But the depth of defeat in the mouldering sod, 
Whispered : "I 

Am God r 

I told my soul I would search for God, 

And she bade me madly try. 
So I sought through the Book and the brook and the clod 

For the Hand of Him, Most High 
Nor voice, nor word, nor cry. 

But the Infinite Longing that bade me plod, 
Whispered: "I 

Am God." 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



54 



FIVE LITTLE PANES OF DUSTY GLASS. 

Five little panes of dusty glass 

And an unmeasured universe await ! 

Yet, beautiful, O ye lovely forms I see, 

And passing sweet, O luscious fruits I taste, 

And charmed voices — rapturing words I hear, 

And odors winged with Heaven's breaths I smell, 

And touch! O God what wondrous things are these I touch? 

Five little panes of dusty glass. 

mist, O mystery! 

And brief the time, ah me, so short the time 
To taste, to smell, to touch, to hear, to look 
Through such confused, dusty, dazed ways. 
So long a while between the moments when, 
One (a shadow dimly seen and heard) 
Doth wipe away the smudges from the panes. 

So many half-lit worlds to see, 

So many muffled voices hear, 

Such countless forms of things to feel. 

Such breaths, breast-warmed of Heaven's draught, 

Such untried sweets to taste of, but — 

Only a momentary glance, 

Through five tiny, smeared panes of glass ! 

Yet, O so beautiful — 

The odor of them is a universe! 

So fair their favors, so entrancing sweet they seem, 

So pleasing is their voice, so good the touch of all — 

1 crave one pane the more, 
One crystal pane — and then — 
O worlds, O Infinite, O God ! 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



55 



THE SIN OF THE SOUR FACE. 

The man was a saint who sat at the head 

And she a saint at the foot. 
And they gave me meat and they gave me bread 

And gold in my purse they put. 
But a public nuisance in each face 

Abode, till I sought escape, 
And I hunted long for a pleasant place, 

Till I felt the grasp of the grape. 

Ah, that was a sin, and my grave is dug! 

Tho' no pleasure it was to do it — 
But I asked for a smile and they gave me a mug, 

As sour as a vinegar cruet. 
'Twas "sadly a sin my life to snuff — 

And my soul to lose past grace — " 
They often groaned — but they spoke not of 

The Sin of the Sour Face. 

O jolly-faced brute, with a silver smile, 

Come, brother, my hand is given. 
We'd rather go down dead-drunk, to Hell 

Than peeve, as saints, in Heaven. 
'Twere better to dream in delirium's death 

And a smile to companions give, 
Than be soured in soul and bittered in breath 

By the surly-faced saint — and live. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



56 




"THE SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE" 

"At the merciless white of the vast, winter shroud, 
At the chill of his breath in their blood." 



THE SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 



"The mighty evergreen, Ygdrasil, bears up the whole universe. 
In his branches are the dwelling places of gods and men. The sun, 
the moon and the stars are borne on his boughs. The winds feed 
upon his leaves unceasingly and eternal darkness gnaws at his roots. 
Yet he lives — forever" — Scandinavian Legend. 



With a Tree of Life the Book began, 

With a Tree of Life it ended, 
And the heart of it all was a Tree of Life 

Wherefrom its Lord depended: 
And the Uttermost Word was the Primal Tree, 

Their father, Ygdrasil — I — 
My leaves for the nations: expiring on me 

Their Lord could most fittingly die. 

Earth's empires falling are notes in my song, 

Each planet a voice of my choir, 
Love-bound constellations in harmony throng 

Their paths which are strings to my lyre. 
The Age-winds have fed their wild brood on my leaves- 

The Death-wind, the War-wind, the Storm — 
But the universe, star-eyed, her coronet weaves 

To garland with glory my form. 

So ever my boughs frost-fed, are green 

And my limbs, unchilled, pierce high. 
And caught in my arms stars and planets are seen 

As red-berried suns of the sky. 
For tipping my tiniest twig there twirls 

(As a seed on a holly bough) 
The Earth which I bore where the Hate-wind whirls 

Begot where the Love-winds sough. 

From the wail of the primal, watery waste 

To the charm of this Christmas day 
My father, Ygdrasil, has bidden me haste 

His mystical word to say; 



57 



THE SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 

Has bidden me stand unafraid of the frost, 

Unamazed at the snow's vast white, 
A sign of his will that the sun be not lost 

In the ice of an unlitten night. 

In the long-past days when your fathers bowed 

All a-tremble with fear in the wood, 
At the merciless white of the vast, winter shroud, 

At the chill of His breath in their blood, 
I, the child of Ygdrasil, alone bade them hope 

For the flowers of springtime to come, 
And for love of my cheer they hurried their rope 

Round my waist and and in joy bore me home. 

Not a twig of my branches forebore to be green 

In their caves while the Winter Wind roared; 
As I told them my evergreen leaves had seen 

Many suns to the far South-sky lowered, 
But they watched through the days as the Great Star fled 

And they marked his path in the sky ! 
Till Ygdrasil, their Lord, turned him back, as I said, 

Lest his beautiful world should die. 

"All Hail, Arbor Vitae," in joy round me sang 

Their children, "O, Life-tree, 'twas true ! 
We love thee, we crown thee, thy branches we hang 

With bright gifts as our children shall do. 
The spring-time, the bird-song, the fruits and the flow'rs 

Are returning, the Great star doth come! 
And alone of the trees was there faith in thy bowers 

That the Good Hand would summon him home !" 

"O Life-tree, O Love-tree, O dear Christmas Tree, 

Beloved, Bestarred, Becrown'd! 
Ygdrasil, exulting, exalted shall be 

Eternally sought for and found!" — 
For the love of thy fathers who worshipped my bough, 

For the message they found in my leaf; 
For their life ('twas my prophecy!) light ('twas my vow!) 

Unburden thy heart of its grief ! 

58 



THE SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 

For the Great Star may sink to the nethermost South 

With his threat of the pitiless snow 
And bloody- fanged Sabertooth moisten his mouth 

When the campfires flicker low, 
Aye, the terrible night may enshroud his dead 

And all living things deathward be hurled — 
Till Ygdrasil, thy Lord, turns him back, as I said, 

Thy Christmas Tree, Light of thy World. 

As I sing thee the song of the Thing to Be, 

I have learned from the storm and the snow, 
My leaves move in mystic melody 

To the air that the forests know. 
For the breath of his music that trembles my limb, 

For my faith in the flowers to come, 
Thou hast gathered me forth — as One, mystical, dim, 

For thy faith soon shall gather thee home. 

So I tell thee tonight of the touchless Hand, 

The Unseen Giver of gifts; 
A call from the common-place (curse of the land!) 

To the splendor that goldens the rifts 
Of the clouds that I part with my evergreen bough — 

To the place of the perfect boon — 
Thou hast garnered me thence from my glory, lo now 

Light my leaves with the radiance of noon. 

And, oh, in this wonderful song lose not thou 

This chord, lest Ygdrasil should frown, 
For his blood in my branches is murmuring now 

Of the One thou hast sought and hast found. 
Lo, my uttermost twig is a-tingle, a-wave 

With the mother-sapped joy of my soul, 
And together they cling till a common grave 

Shall bury their brotherhood, whole. 

So wait I here for thy child till the morn, 

Bejeweled with silver and gold, 
Fulfillment of prophecies, sacrifice-born, 

For the love of thy seven-year-old ; 



59 



THE SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 

While he sleeps with his Teddy the long night through 
Till the latticed light sun-kisses sifts, 

Till yon curtain is drawn for his raptured view 
Of my glory, my glamour, my gifts ! 

Hark then to the song of thy Christmas Tree 

Aglow — e'er the endless night, 
Ablaze — e'er the winter that haunteth thee, 

Await — for the supernal light. 
Thy father, Ygdrasil — be dreamless thy sleep 

Breathe thou low, till thy curtain is drawn — 
In love-laden bounty thy presents shall keep 

On his breast for the Ultimate Dawn. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



60 



THE LURE OF THE BLANKET. 

De coal's done use' up in de grate, 

De kindlin — hit's all gone. 
De snow's done froze de woodpile 

An' it keeps a-fallin' on ! 
Dis blizzud makes my bref like steam, 

I shakes jes like I'se dyin', 
D'aint no warm place but dishyear bed, 

An' dat's jes whar I'se gwine! 

I'se gwinter bed an' I'se gwinter dream 

O' the sun in de ole flat-boat, 
An' I doan wanter hear no winter win' 

Till de Spring's done got 'is goat. 
D'aint no use a-shovellin' coal fer me, 

D'aint no use a-hollerin' : "Fire !" 
Dis nigger's cole an' 'its bed fer him," 

Till d'ole thermom' gits higher!" 



Atlanta, Ga., 1911. 



61 



"I'SE RISIN'." 

'Wunner ef de woodpecker's buildin' 

His nes' in de ole oak tree? 
For its spring-time down in Georgy 

An' its spring-time down in me ; 
An' I hears dat woodpecker thumpin' 

On de tin roof 'bove my haid — 
In de mornin' fo' de day break — 

"Git up dar, is you daid!" 
Dat's wot he say an' to dis day it seems surprisin' 
An 'den an' dar, I 'lows "No sah, Fse most arisin'." 

'Wunner ef dey's anybody lis'nin' 

To 'im peck on dat ole oak tree 
Or whedder de cabins empty 

Whar we'uns used fer to be. 
I wunner ef dey's anybody layin' 

Down dar on de grass whar I laid 
A watchin' his ole bill a flyin' : — 

"Git up dar, is you daid?" 
Dat's wot he say an' to dis day it seem surprisin' 
An' den an dar, I 'lows "No sah, I'se most arisin'." 

I'se sho gwine down to Georgy 

Nex' spring when de woodpeckers come. 
I'se gwinter quit col' Philadelphy 

Whar de birds is daid an' dum. 
I'se gwinter dat hole in Georgy, 

In de ole oak nigh my baid 
An' hear dat yallow-hammer thumpin' : 

"Git up dar, is you daid?" 
Dat's wot he say an' to dis day it seem surprisin' 
An' den an' dar, I'll low "No sah, I'se most arisin'. 

Las' night I done drempt 'bout de woodpec' 

An' de ole oak tree down home 
An' I dream dis nigger bin buried 



62 



"VSE RISIN'." 

An' de judgment day done come 
An' it seem most powerful quiet 

Down dar whar I was laid, 
But de ole woodpeck' kep' a-peckin' : 

"Git up dar, is you daidl" 
Dat's wot he say an' to dis day it seem surprisin' 
An' den dar I 'lowed "No sah, I sho is risin'!" 

Nashville, Tenn., 1906. 



63 



TRUST TRIUMPHANT. 

Soft the snowflake, still the ice sheet, 

Cold the white world, winterdrest ; 
And the flowers — dear, dead flowers — 

Slumber on her breast ! 
But the great pines— dreaming, dark pines — 

Murmur in the covert valley, whisper on the wooded crest. 

Comes the dewdrop, melts the ice-sheet, 

Rise, O rainbowed Earth, from rest; 
All thy flowers — fair sweet flowers — 

Blossom on thy breast! 
And the dream-pines — evergreen pines — 

Chant low in the verdant valley, sing soft on the wooded crest 

Alanta, Ga., 1911. 



64 







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"THE PSYCHIC CITY" 

"Here gather all thine own to run 
The race which thou dost set — 
The pace thyself dost set." 



THE PSYCHIC CITY. 

Fairest of all the fire-born, 

Fleetest of all the Gods, 

Sweetest of all the Gods, 
Despair of all the lyre-lorn 

Who race beneath the rods, 

Meet Death beneath thy rods, 
Kiss Death, of all their glory shorn, 
For Thee, O Atalanta, — 

Comes Aphrodite boasting her 
Fair Paris; Mars, Berlin — 
Fierce Mars his strong Berlin : 

And London, lo, of Jupiter 

Her Lord who walls her in — 
With empire walls her in — 

But thou hast set the stars astir, 

To shine on Atalanta. 

Here gather all thine own to run 
The race which thou dost set — 
The pace thyself dost set — 

Who, taught of thee, illusions shun 
And golden greed forget, 
(Lest goals they should forget), 

For that thy glorious haste is on 

Thy city, Atalanta. 

O Fair, thou dost confessed stand 

In those who race with thee — 

In these who covet thee — 
Who hither come from every land 

Thy husbanders to be — 

Thy victors, swift, to be— 
Who court their death to win thy hand, 
Unrivalled Atalanta. 

Thus grows the city thou didst found, 
Thy spirit brooding o'er her — 
Thy wisdom watching o'er her — 

Thus rise her halls on hallowed ground 



65 



THE PSYCHIC CITY. 

A destiny before her — 
Fair futures all before her — 

By golden apples cast around, 

Untempted, Atalanta. 

Th' Invisible, Th' Intangible, 

Thou givest to thine own, 

Foundations for thine own ; 

Th' Intangible, Th' Inaudible, 
Nor field nor river-grown — 
Nor coal nor iron-grown — 

Unseen, unheard, untouched Will 

Thy spirit, Atalanta. 

Fairest of all the fire-born, 
Divinest urge upon her, 
(Thine urgent drive upon her) 

Despair of rivals left forlorn, 

The fear of those who shun her, 
(The weaklings' fear who shun her), 

Sweep swiftly on to meet the morn. 

My City, Atalanta. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



66 



BACK FROM THE AGES. 

Alive, ajoy, aglow I came from Death 

I, who when I was dead yet hurried on. 

Aglow, afire, ablaze my elements 

Have shed their rays till now the light is low. 

Till now the tug of Time doth draw them down, 

The terror-tug of Time doth draw them back 

Into the Ages whither all men go. 

Ah, long my part did wait for part to find 

His fellow, loitering through the countless years; 

I, multi-mingled man who might not fare 

Forth to bright life till every atom fell 

Into his place. I, child of chance — His strange 

Weird chance — came forth to this dear day — and lived 

But now — (O setting sun!) — I go away. 

My world disintegrates. The friends of old 

Approach me : Dullness, Darkness, Blindness, these 

And Silence (O thou happy hearted noise!) : 

Old friends that with me were in my long wait 

To live, who would with me again abide — 

Farewell, Fair World, till we shall meet once more 

As meet we shall when he doth cast the dice 

Just as they fell before when forth I came 

To light. Aeons shall lie as dust upon 

His dial-plate whose seconds tell the death 

Of suns grown cold while waiting on his will, 

But come I shall tho' myriad's myriad worlds 

Shall fall forth from his cup and have their day 

Before the lucky cast shall summon us. 

For when they all have gone my parts shall hear 

Their cues and they shall come from far to be — 

From calcium-clouded, cosmic dust, from dead 

Stars, from wee planets, warmed by unweighed suns ; 

From drifting meteor bands of coveyed worlds; 

Come forth when He shall cast the lucky throw 

That sets the sun a center for his train, 

The world again a theater for men, 



67 



BACK FROM THE AGES. 

And men and world and sun the same as when 

He cast us all into his lap before. 

And this I know for he doth never cease 

To play at making universes new, 

(At making universes old he plays), 

And in His game toys with the centuries 

As toy eternities with tiny hours. 

And he will gather me to act again 

My part with those who played for him. For this 

He needeth naught save time — and who may say 

There lacketh centuries to wait his will? 

Atlanta, Ga., 1911. 



YELLOW JASMINE. 

Thy mellow bells of yellow 

Have called me from afar, 
They tell, O thou my fellow, 

What Heaven's holies are : 
Of restful reveries below, 

Of dreams in slumbering sod, 
Ah, who of us shall first awake 

To find that he is God? 

O yellow bells and mellow, 

The flowers hear thy call : 
Faint hello for each fellow 

A-sleep, a-silence, all ! 
O goldened, faith-emboldened soil 

O note o'er-drowning doubt, 
The wearied world forsakes its toil 

To search thy glory out. 

Thy dell, O bells of yellow, 

With tones of reach and range, — 
Thy cello, deep and mellow — 

Upstirs in Easter change. 
The blue-eyed violet wets with tears 

Of joy the conquered clod ; 
The dogwood listens, white with fears ; 
The woodbine flames with God. 

At thy mellow bells and yellow, 
Brave, the bluebird sings, 

Bold, the hello of thy fellow- 
Flowers greets the spring. 

For wonder at thy sweetened breath 
The reverent daisies nod, 

Azaleas crimson, shamed from death, 

To hear that they are God ! 

Thy mellow bells of yellow 
Have called me from afar 



69 



YELLOW JASMINE. 

To dwell, O faith's boon-fellow, 
Where Heaven's holies are ; 

Mid mysteries of dark, dead things, 
Mid dreams of moulded sod, 

Mid resurrection's petalled kings, 
Mid pistilled peals for God. 

Atlanta, Ga., March, 1911. 



70 



MISMATED. 

He cast my lot in His lap 

And loaded the dice as He chose, 
So my mate fell forth from His faithless trap, 

Of the sort He was pleased to dispose. 
And He woke me from beauteous dreams with a slap 

And added her weight to my woes. 

Then He sat me by His side, 

To watch the dice as they fell, 
And He groaned as my raptured eyes opened wide 

At the beautiful angel, Estelle. 
For, who loves the lot of another has died 

And abides in Hell. 

Atlanta, Ga., 1910. 



71 



THE SONG OF THE LABORING MAN. 

I sing the song of the laboring man 
Who works and works and works. 
With sweated brow and soiled hand 
And loss for what he shirks. 

In want and insecurity, 

In dirt and all impurity, 

In darkness and obscurity 

He works and works and works. 
Unhonored he and all unknown 
Save by the One who loves his own, 
The One who works and works. 

I sing the song of the laboring man 
Who works and works and works, 
Who with God's towel girds his loins 
And serves mid sneers and smirks ; 

Who serves when shivering with cold, 

Who serves when flushed of fever's hold, 

Who serves with little pay of gold 

To tempt where danger lurks. 
With much to do and nought to say, 
Thus bends he on his toilsome way 
Thus breaks his back day after day 
Who works and works and works. 

I sing a song with the laboring man 
Who worked and worked and worked, 
Who served me in another land 
And nought of duty shirked; 

Who labored in the long night rain, 

Of labor long and hard was slain, 

And, rudely with his fathers lain, 

Found rest of toil and work, 
Now sings he lustily and true : 
"My Father worketh hitherto 
And I must work and work." 

Clinton, S. C., 1904. 

72 



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